


Got it Wrong

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M, Past Boyd Crowder/Raylan Givens - Freeform, tim whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Everyone knew it, whispered about it and watched the news with worried eyes- some worried for the man, some worried for themselves.Everyone knew the wrong Marshal had gotten shot, and that the Marshals were out for blood and vengeance.  The worst kind of shooting, too, out of uniform and in a public place, and why had the second Marshal even been there? Should have been the man in the hat...





	Got it Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this one-shot!

Everyone knew it, whispered about it and watched the news with worried eyes- some worried for the man, some worried for themselves.  
  
Everyone knew the wrong Marshal had gotten shot, and that the Marshals were out for blood and vengeance.  The worst kind of shooting, too, out of uniform and in a public place, and why had the second Marshal even been there, they all asked.  
  
On a Sunday morning, why were there two Marshals walking together?  And how had that second Marshal moved like that, gotten himself in between, how’d he known the shooter was in that car?  
  
Dickie Bennett lived in utter terror from the moment he learned of his error, clinging onto his cane, knowing it was only a matter of time before Raylan Givens found the trail that led from the junior deputies' bullet wound  to his holler.  
  
He should have been alone.  
  
He should have been shot through the spine. Dickie had hired a goddamn professional. A fucking specialist.  


And it had still gone wrong.

  
*

They got the wrong one, Raylan thought to himself, they shot the wrong Marshal and Tim shouldn't have been there at all.  
  
He should have been alone, and Tim shouldn't have moved like that.  
  
Every time Raylan closed his eyes, he saw Tim's pace change, moving between Raylan and a threat Raylan hadn't seen, knocking Raylan to the ground and following, himself, in a much less controlled fashion, covering Raylan with his body and blood.  
  
Raylan kept his eyes open, watching Tim's chest rise and fall.  
  
Rise, and fall. Both sides, now, in sync, when after that shot...  he couldn’t think about it.  Think about it now. Like waves at the beach, steady and soothing, if he could ignore the beeping.  
  
He turned his hat in his hands, and wished he dared reach out and hold Tim's hand instead.  But Art was in and out, and Rachel, and Tim wouldn't want them to know more than they knew.  
  
They knew that the wrong Marshal had been shot. They knew Tim shouldn't have been there with Raylan at all, on a Sunday morning.  
  
They knew he was, anyways.  
  
*

They got the wrong Marshal, Art thought, watching Raylan's shoulders cave under the weight of Tim's breathing, and they've angered the wrong ones, too.  
  
Tim shouldn't have been there. What the hell had he been doing- what was he thinking- did he just know? Had he known of an attack and gone to protect Raylan? That was something Tim would do, but he couldn’t get his mind to settle, accept it as fact.  Tim would have told him. And Tim would have been in a vest or he would have shot that fucker, he wouldn't have been in - he reviewed the evidence they'd given him to keep and file, everything they'd taken from Tim, covered in his blood.  
  
Shorts, tennis shoes, no socks, a wifebeater and a worn out flannel of indeterminable color that they'd had to pry out of Raylan's fingers, according to the EMTs.  Art had had to lead his deputy to water, to wash Tim's blood off, and seen deep shock in his eyes, even as his hands moved mechanically.  
  
Something wasn't adding up...  
  
No weapon, Art thought, Tim hadn't been armed at all, and he didn't think that was a natural state for Tim. He'd never seen him unarmed.  
  
He shouldn't have taken that bullet for Raylan.  Not that Art wanted to sit next to Raylan on that bed, either, no, but this was just...  
  
Wrong, wrong, wrong.  
*

Boyd Crowder knew they'd shot the wrong Marshal. That knowledge was enough to make him scream, because if that boy hadn't been where he had no business to be- by Raylan's side, early on a Sunday morning- and hadn't done what he had no business to do- step between Raylan and death- then Raylan, his friend, would be dead.  
  
That Raylan was alive was a great blessing, even though he now owed the junior Marshal a debt. After all, _he_ knew why he'd been there.  
  
He watched the news. According to the somber newscaster, the young man was in critical condition, and according to Art Mullen, who looked like utter shit, the Marshal's office was engaged in an investigation into the incident, in collaboration with LPD.  Boyd snorted. Useless.  The newscaster went on to show an image of the deputy, talk about his heroism and record and Boyd couldn't help but sense that the boy had had the shit luck to be shot on a slow news weekend.  
  
He couldn't think that he'd care for his likeness and story and skills paraded around, not when, to all Boyd saw, he held those last two to his chest.  
  
LPD would have to hump to it to find that shooter before Boyd did.  The only lawman who could beat him to a punch, after all, was sitting where he shouldn't be, waiting for his love to open his eyes.  
  
*

He shouldn't be here, standing silent in Tim's room, looking down at him.  He wasn't a big man, the youngest Marshal, but he seemed to be when his eyes were open and he was interested in something.  Without that focus, he was as he appeared now. Small, fading into the white of the hospital blankets and draped in wires and tubes.  
  
Raylan should be here, and Boyd's thought summoned him. He appeared, looking tired and out of place and angry. He got between Boyd and Tim, like he thought he needed to protect Tim from Boyd.  He was wrong about that.   
  
"What are you doin' here, Boyd?"  
  
"I came," Boyd said, "To see how you were doing."  
  
"Me? I'm fine. Didn't you hear, they shot the wrong Marshal?" His voice was bitter as burnt coffee, and Boyd reached for him.  
  
"There are more ways to wound a man than by bullets," he said softly, as Raylan let him touch his shoulder and curl fingers around the back of his neck, pulling them both towards each other, like always, "And I reckon that Deputy Gutterson would agree, he has the easier of the wounds to bear."  
  
"He would say nothin' of that kind," Raylan snorted, amused, eyes flickering towards the bed as if hopeful the boy would wake, grow large again and spout out something sharp-tongued and soothing to his soul. "He would say-" his voice trailed off, pain replacing laughter, "It shoulda been me, Boyd, and I don't know who done it, but I can't leave him-"  
  
Boyd finished the pull together and held him, and Raylan hung onto him hard enough Boyd bit his cheek and kept quiet.  "He won't leave you," Boyd said softly.  
  
"He should," Raylan choked, "He should, _he should,_ oh, Boyd-"  
  
Boyd closed his eyes against the grief and held him as he shook, the memory of Raylan leaving him a burning, painful thing.  
  
He shouldn't be here.  None of them should be.  
  
*

Raylan held onto Boyd as tightly as he ever had.  He shouldn't be here, in Tim's hospital room, in Raylan's arms, or out of prison, but right at that moment, he was where Raylan needed him.  Boyd soothed him as easy as he had when they were boys together, scared of the dark in the mines.  
  
He ached with how much he missed Boyd and how right it felt, so different than the young man lying so still behind him.  Tim could do better than him, he shouldn't have been there at all. It was Raylan's bullet they'd pried out of Tim's body.  
  
Boyd gently eased him back, and Raylan shook his head at himself. Even now, Boyd was watching out for him.  "Raylan," Boyd said softly, "Can I talk to my old friend, without the Marshal listenin' in?"  
  
He didn't like that question, and the gulf stretched between them again. "I _am_ the Marshal."  
  
"So," Boyd smiled with many teeth, "The senior by almost two decades is sleepin' with a junior he's supposed to be training?  That's a real interesting choice you've made, there, Marshal."  
  
Raylan's lips skinned back from his teeth, "He's an adult," he snarled, "And he's a fully credentialed officer and he ain't _ever_ been my student or trainee, he is _Rachel’s._ ”  
  
"Still," Boyd said, "I've reason to speak to this boy's lover- who was once another boy's lover, if he ain't forgot- and no reason at all to speak to the Marshal."  
  
"You never shut up," Raylan growled, and Boyd waited for his curiosity to beat his temper, "Spit it out, damn  you."  
  
It hurt, all of this hurt so badly, but it was how they were.  


"It was Bennett money that paid for a shooter," Boyd said, "And Dickie's the last Bennett standin'.  He hired someone from out of state, no real point in following that trail."  
  
"How'd you know that?"  
  
"Dickie's a damned idiot, and was proud of his plan?" Boyd said, "And the day Dewey Crowe don't tell me every little thought that clouds his sunshiny mind..."  
  
Raylan shook his head, settling beside Tim, his fingers twining around one limp hand, "Boyd, if the Marshal don't know-"  
  
"It can't hurt the Marshal," Boyd said softly, and, leaning down, kissed him just as softly as his words had been.  "See you, Raylan."  
  
Dickie was already dead, anyhow.  
  
*

Raylan watched Boyd walk away, and he leaned his head forward to rest on the bed, choking on the pain of it.  Sometimes, Boyd found his old place in Raylan's chest and twisted the knife left there with gentle hands.  
  
"I need you," Raylan told Tim, "To wake up, and tell me I'm an idiot and a moron and wrong.  And some other things you don't say out loud, I'd give anything right now, Tim..."  
  
Tim didn't answer, and Raylan scooted the chair against the bed and laid his head down by Tim's hand, closing his eyes and seeing Boyd's stance in his rear view window, heard him call after him, boyish and laughing, confident, "You'll be back, Raylan Givens, and I will be waiting on you!" ringing through the still summer air.  
  
He didn't move for hours, swallowing tears when they threatened to choke him, held onto Tim for dear life.  
  
Tim's fingers tightened on his, his thumb rubbing across the back of Raylan's hand.  
  
It was another day before Tim could speak, and when he did, Raylan kissed the words away.  "I love you, Raylan," he said, blue eyes sunken and tired, but he was alive and that was what mattered. "You bastard."

  
And that… that was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love, and make my day, even if it's just that you read it.


End file.
